Our Subconscious Demons
by EternalStorm
Summary: Sherlock is in therapy due to the absence of his friend, and comes to the final decision to do the thing he has been longing for as long as he can remember. TRIGGER WARNING: Contains in depth descriptions of mental health issues and suicide.


The room was clear and sterile with one large window gazing over the cluttered car park below. The cream walls were perfectly lit by the bright illuminating light protruding from the ceiling. Light bouncing off the mahogany desk while highlighting the constant and persistent use of the cracked and worn brown leather sofa where he sat. Before him, sat a woman with dark skin, holding a used and dusty clipboard on a sturdy mahogany chair. This was usual for him.

"So Sherlock. How have you been this week?" she asked in a caring and understanding tone.

"I've been fine thanks", he managed a smile. "Actually, I've been great." His smile growing ever more confident on his pale face.

A shocked look overcame her face. A bright white smile filled her as she took notes on the wad of paper on her lap. "You don't realise how far you've come in these recent months."

"I know", he started. "I don't think I will need to come here so often anymore."

"I was going to mention that."

"Yes?"

"I don't actually think you need to come here at all anymore," she inhaled in wait for his reply, anticipating his answer.

"Oh, okay," he said with little to no emotional response.

"You have improved so much," she explained, showing a little discomfort as a result of his lack of response. "I am going to discharge you, as I feel as if we have covered the bases of your treatment and you can cope on your own now." she said in a monotone voice.

Sherlock sat on his shaking hands and tried to steady his breath. His heart pounded so hard he could hear it in his ears, he felt as if he was in a sauna, despite the fact that it was mid January, as beads of sweat formed on his his temples.

The cool, crisp air hit his sharp cheeks as he left the pleasant temperature of the office. The world outside was bright and colourful, unlike the four cream walls he visits each week. However, to him the world seemed bleak and grey. By the time he had started to walk into town to return to his solitary flat it was past midday. Without having eaten at all, he absentmindedly strolled past a warm and inviting cafe without even questioning himself or his physical health. His head hung low, dragging his feet, not looking up at where he was headed. His hands felt for his pockets in an attempt to retain some heat, as tears welled in his eyes, he blinked them back as his heart felt heavy.

Upon arrival to his desolate and unwelcoming home his hand shook as he attempted to unlock the door. He inhaled, in an attempt to steady himself, while propping himself up against the wall. Eventually after what seemed like a long period of attempting not to break down and cry he managed to unlock the door.

He stood in silence in his kitchen for an eternity, before screaming and letting his emotions run riot. His mind and body shook. He ripped and teared letters, knocking over stools to release his rage and irritation towards his situation. Previously lined up science equipment and experiments littered the immaculate kitchen floor, along with knives and various other cutlery. He chocked back a sob as tears streamed down his cheeks. He sat in the wreckage, leaning against the skirting board.

Moments passed and a blood covered knife hit the floor beside him. Crimson red seeped into the cement between each tile either side of where he sat. His vision was blurred as he tried to stand. Gripping both arms as he staggered out the room, his whimpering did not diminish. He hiked the relentless hallway to his bedroom where he kicked open the cupboard door, whilst smearing blood into the carpet.

He gingerly took a bag off the shelf, which was collecting dust at the back. He traipsed back down the stairs, dragging the rucksack behind him. While wiping away tears, he took a chair from the dining table and dragged it to the centre of the room. As he did this, he fell numb. All he knew was that he had to carry out this act. This time he would.

Delving into the bag he brought out a long and sturdy rope. It felt comfortable in his hands, knowing exactly what to do with it. He felt dizzy, but managed to stand on the vitally placed chair, lassoing the rope around the ornate chandelier.

As he tightened the other end of the rope around his neck he began to think. Years worth of therapy and this is still how he was going to go. A twenty six year old man with so many issues he couldn't count one one hand. This had all happened because John was gone. John left Baker Street and now his life was ending.

The cool wooden chair below his feet beckoned him to kick it away. The rope was already crushing his wind pipe. As a single tear rolled down his cheek, he came to the final decision to end it all. With a stifled sob and a sharp inhalation, he kicked the chair away from underneath himself.

As his body had the final ounce of life drained from him, he thought about earlier that morning. His counsellor had faith that he was better. He could care for himself now without help. He was going to see John again now. "Well," he thought. "How wrong she was."


End file.
